A Paradox of Nature
by Pickledwarf
Summary: Sable understands perfectly the paradoxical nature of beauty, as does White. Though, whilst he is content to contemplate it on his own, White has other ideas. Slash, Pollution/Famine, Rated M for a reason.


Just some gratituous Pollution/Famine smut written for kink bingo prompt "bodily secretions" - because whose bodily secretions could be more.. interesting, than the personification of Pollution's?

Enjoy!

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Sable was a man who could appreciate beauty when he saw it – even in the most unlikely of places. Most would take a look at a lithe form, bone jutting from too-tight skin and be disgusted, shake their head and turn away, but they were jealous. They understood little of the beauty of human form, how driven people could be, to deny their bodies what they needed to survive purely to achieve aesthetic perfection.

For many people, aesthetic perfection rode on the back of ill-health.

The paradoxical nature of beauty was something that Famine understood perfectly.

White was a similar such man, if he could be called as such. The bittersweet irony of oil sang to him without fail. The blood of the earth bubbled up through oceans, churning waters Technicolor rainbow black and poisoning the very thing upon which all life depended. The sunset lit the skies and the seas alike with a fire borne only from the ragged-patched-pierced-torn net of the ozone, and people stopped, stared and said "Damn, that's beautiful."

Neither claimed that beauty was ever healthy.

So naturally, when White turns up at his offices one day, the first thing Sable does is invite his colleague inside and compliment his great success in the Gulf of Mexico.

"I saw," He tells the pale boy, gazing at him from across the executive desk and over long, steepled fingertips. "In person, when I was evaluating the extent of the damage you'd done to the food supplies." White smiles, a slow curl of lip, and for a moment he looks as though he could sleep to it, but nevertheless, Pollution remains awake.

"I stood at the edge of a fishing trawler belching out toxic black fumes and watched the sun light up across the ocean, setting it aflame with prismatic beauty." His voice is little more than a murmur, but White hears, the low flush of praise spreading out across his face, the images drawn by the black rider's deep, melodic voice setting heat tight in the pit of his belly.

They aren't strangers to this- this push and pull.

White falls too easily, but he is young, and Sable forgives him for it, his eager form oozing across the room to deposit himself in the businessman's lap, eager hands curling into the knot of a black silk tie, eager lips pressed against familiar form. Sable drinks him in with a huff of a laugh and pushes his tongue past sinful lips into oil-slick-dirty mouth.

If Pollution can intoxicate him, Famine can seed hunger in the white rider's being, hunger that he will, for once, and only for this one, sate. White twitches his hips forwards and bites into Sable's lip with a greedy noise, licking away blood with something that stings more than just saliva. Thin fingers grasp at a grubby t-shirt that might once have been white, but has long since fallen prey to the youngest horseman's nature, and tug it up over his head in a fluid motion.

White lifts his arms obediently to let the garment slide free, and Raven finds that he likes this. A gesture and the lock on the door clicks shut, sticks tight with rust just to be certain and that's that. Pollution is leaking already, damp blossoming across the front of similarly grubby linen pants, and Famine finds he likes this, too, as unsurprised by it as he is. But he ignores it in favour of fanning the flames of that hunger the boy is victim to, swiping a hand over the thin rainbow sheen of the boy's skin as his body reacts in the only way it knows how.

Sable slides his tongue over the dusky peak of a nipple and White arches as he drags off his colleague's tie, deft fingers rotting away the fibre of his shirt leaving him equally exposed. His tongue comes away with the taste of turpentine and faintly sticky from whatever it is Pollution secretes, possibly toxic, but it's not as though Famine can die.

He finally sees fit to divest the boy of his pants, leaving him squirming naked in his lap, and curls his hand around the hot, exposed flesh, thumb wiping clean the seeping tip in favour of dragging moisture down and aiding in the apparently natural self-lubrication of White's skin. This earns him a strangled moan and a greedy push of hips, and Famine would be lying if he said he wasn't just as hard as the wriggling form in his lap.

But White is nothing if not messy, and still leaking sticky wet spots where his cock bumps against his belly as he arches back, beads blossoming at the head and rolling down the length of him in tacky trails that Sable drags his hand through with steady, measured pulls, and Pollution is left gasping out obscenities against his shoulder.

The boy fiddles with the black rider's belt, the metal buckle tarnishing and turning grey before it falls open, the leather dragged free and thrown to the ground so that Pollution can claim what he wants with a clasp and a zip, pulling the man free to slide against his slick skin. He cants forwards, rising to his knees, and plants one hand on Famine's shoulder to steady himself, the other reaching back to push two slippery fingers into himself. His skin glimmers like polished stone with the wet secretion of chemicals, the oily sheen passed to Famine's cock as he strokes the older male slowly, now balanced enough to rock back into his hand without a hand to steady himself.

Sable aids him, though, the hand that doesn't pull slowly along Pollution's length curling elegant tapered fingers into the pale flesh of a slim hip, anchoring the boy in place as his noisy, pleasured sounds increase in volume, dripping wet and sticky against Sable's stomach. Sable himself is quietly intense, all hard gazes and sharp pushes, and Pollution finds it's all he needs to undo him entirely.

"Christ, Sable." He pants, forehead resting damp against the man's shoulder, entirely unconcerned with defiling his tongue with blasphemy and profanity, "Fuck."

"Quite." Sable rumbles, amused, his hand leaving White's hip to slide down his spine to where he's stretched open around his own fingers, Famine's now coated in Pollution's acid sweat, one pressing in. The boy whines, his hips piston forwards once, twice, before he stills again, grasping desperately for control over his own actions.

"Fuck-!" He shudders and squeezes his eyes shut, his muscles tightening reflexively to cling snug around their fingers, another loose whine escaping him. "Fuck fuck fuck- Fuck me-" White demands, pulling his own hand free and by that merit Sable's, before he shoves his hips forward and sinks down on to Famine in one long slide.

Famine groans and moves to swallow Pollution's keen, licking his way into the boy's mouth and biting his lip to taste the sharp copper of his blood, mixed with the same turpentine tang of his sweat. They sit for a moment, Pollution shaking with need, Famine merely clinging to the reflexive desire to force his lover into desperate unfulfilled want, before the pale one rises up onto his knees once more and rolls his hips down.

It works well from then on, Famine lifting to meet Pollution's needy thrusts, never giving precisely what the boy needs, indulging him only as much as he wants. The white rider whines out impatience, changes angle and with one long sinuous flex of his spine- _there._ He slides against Sable's chest and moans noisily, leaving the older male slick with the same rainbow-shiny dampness, his hips bucking erratically as he tightens spasmodically.

Famine abandons his ethic for a second, jerking backwards only to slam upwards precisely where needed, coming with a low growl as he bites down below Pollution's ear, leaving a livid red mark.

"Fuck- _Famine!_" The boy all but howls as he comes, shoving wildly forward and mewling out his release, collapsing against Famine's chest with a few hitching sobs as he shakes.

The taller male recovers quicker than his companion, who is left quivering and sagging against the larger form, both of them streaked with Pollution's various secretions, and looking none worse for wear because of it. Famine moves first, picking up the trembling boy and standing to evaluate the damage done to his office and clothes.

Beauty, Famine knows, is not always healthy.

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Reviews are, as always, loved and appreciated.


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